A Sunrise Through Broken Glass
by Allie Salvatore
Summary: Uriel's fall starts not with love, but with hate. Violence TW. [originally posted on Feb 20, 2015 on AO3]


**A/N:** published 20/02/15 on AO3

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Streams of orange-pink light break the deep blue of the sky, and the colour reminds Dantalion of fire. He watches it infiltrate through the cracked window as the sun rises in the horizon, casting into the temple floor streaks and dots of light that look like constellations and comet trails, and wonders why the sun still rises like poetry, bringing subtle nuances and bright colours into a bleak world.

He wonders if one day the world will ever become as dark as it feels; an ever-growing abyss that smiles down at Dantalion with silver-dotted indigo complexion and the bloody-radiant morning sky. That tender mix of night and day, the moment between dreaming and waking, touching ever-so-slightly, only to be separated again by the inevitability of the Earth's turn, reminds him that even though the universe seems fixed on that particular point, everything will eventually move on, unaware that time is merely an abstract concept and holds no meaning other than the one he attributes to it.

The angel watches him, face cold as steel, lips pursed into a thin line. His violet eyes seem almost black in the dim light of the morning, and a deep cut on the right side of his face gives him an almost feral look. He is a warrior, albeit a reluctant one. Floating exactly in front of the broken window, the light framing his figure as if coming directly from Heaven, and with a bloody silver sword firmly in his hand, Uriel looks like the foggy edge between hero and villain.

"Are you done yet?" Uriel asks, his voice soft and warm. "What a pity. I thought you were a skilled fighter."

The smell of burnt wood still lingers in the air, makes the demon feel as if he's choking, the memories of the war still too vivid in his mind. It's been years, he thinks. Hundreds of years since then – the screams still echo inside his head, the putrid smell of burnt flesh and blood is still present whenever he sees fire, like a constant side-effect, and it makes him gag.

Dantalion inhales sharply, hands lighting up with flames, a refusal to give up despite his knees feeling weaker with every second. Uriel watches him with a curious look on his face, partially amused, as if waiting to see what Dantalion would do next. Seconds later, the fire extinguishes, and, still keeping eye contact with the angel, Dantalion falls to his knees.

He breathes heavily, one hand pressing against his stomach where an open wound bleeds profusely. His vision is starting to darken, and his entire body feels lighter than it should. Still, he forces himself back on his feet, legs trembling. The angel gives him a look, a mix of pity, amusement and worry in his dark eyes.

"Dantalion", Uriel says, calmly, and descends, lowering himself into the floor with grace. "I have not come here to harm you. You understand, of course, that this is entirely your fault for attacking me."

Groaning, Dantalion falls to his knees again, and Uriel hushes towards him, dropping his sword with a metallic clunk. He stops, worry changing into disapproval as Dantalion stands back up again with a flash of anger crossing his eyes.

"Dantalion", Uriel says again, and his voice carries such disappointment the demon has to fight down an overwhelming need to beg for forgiveness as he plummets back into the floor and remains there, accepting his defeat. "A dead enemy will do me no good. Is it death that you truly want?"

Bloodshot, crimson eyes stare at the angel with a murderous red anger. His irises, tainted with the blood of all the people he's killed throughout his life, whose deaths fuel that fiery gaze, are the very colour of the hateful pomegranates in Persephone's garden. He figures death would be much too humiliating for his taste. After all, he did not kill himself as a human to die by the sword of angel, that's for sure.

"What I want?" he croaks, hoarsely. "I want to completely destroy you.

Uriel kneels in front of him and lays a hand over his, one eyebrow raised. He mutters an incantation, and Dantalion's vision clears. For a moment, he savours the healing, but the next he finds the angel is much too close to him and hate boils in his stomach.

He wants to pin Uriel down on the floor and rip off both of his wings, feather by feather, to make him feel maybe a fraction of the pain Dantalion feels every day. Wants to see the red blood soil the white clothes like sin, run down the angel's skin like watercolour paint, diluted with bitter tears and sweat. Wants to play lyre on the wretches of his wings, draw pictures on his back with his nails, until the angel's screams become a cacophonous melody. And he wants, at the brink of madness, Uriel to do the same to him.

"I don't need your pity", he shoves Uriel's hand away, mid-healing. "Don't you think you've punished me enough?"

"I've told you I'm not here to harm you."

Dantalion stands up, abruptly.

"Well, then you are completely useless."

There is a beat. A glint of anger appears on Uriel's face, but he remains otherwise impassive, emotionless, as he looks at Dantalion and sees nothing but a petulant child who can't learn from his mistakes. Uriel is not at fault if Dantalion is an imperfect creature. Blood and breakable bones and rotting flesh, nothing but a mere speck of dust in the universe, crying out on the off chance someone might care enough to help it through the pain.

Still, even imperfect creatures were made by his Father – blood and breakable bones and rotting flesh all part of some secret higher meaning no one understands but God. Uriel can see through those cracks: the flaws on the clay surface reveal bright darkness and small infinite universes, all powered by God's wisdom. Imprecise, dangerous, flawed? Yes, but a beautiful creature all the same.

"Poor thing", he murmurs, standing up, and lets his fingers barely graze over Dantalion's cheek. "Are you so desperate for drowning the screams in your head by having your body injured that you can't comprehend the full extent of your sins and the punishment applied to them?"

Dantalion looks away and Uriel stares as he closes his eyes, tilting his head up slightly, inhaling the dry through his nose and exhaling shakily through his mouth. He thinks the red marks across Dantalion's face, where he was hit by a whip rather than a sword in Uriel's attempts of keeping him at bay instead of genuinely damaging, make him look a lot more sinful than usual.

For a brief moment, as a mask of precise calmness conceals the broken pieces inside of him, Uriel ponders whether it is really necessary to cause more emotional pain to someone whose mind still lingers on the edge of madness, faulty brain unable to properly process his own feelings.

Except when the demon opens his eyes again, and all Uriel can see is that hateful red colour, he realises that the reason he is there is to make sure Dantalion is overwhelmed by the only emotion he can understand other than anger. The pain sedates him, quietens the anger into hazy, liquid sorrow. It is a morbid kind of discipline, one that makes Uriel sick to his stomach because of how cruel its implications are.

He wishes it didn't have to be that way.

Uriel's fingers trace Dantalion's jaw, and he tightens his grip, his other hand finding its way into the demon's hair, tugging painfully. Roughly, he forces the demon to look at him. Dantalion obeys, lips parted, breathing out superficially. Uriel tugs at his hair again, stronger this time, without even being sure of why, and a shiver runs down his spine as the demon tilts his head to follow the movement, a soft moan escaping through his lips.

Dantalion's eyes are like a sunrise through broken glass, his face flushed, and part of Uriel fears for them both. For the demon, because his eyes show an eagerness to ache Uriel can't understand, a desire to be broken, completely, until nothing is left but raw, uncomplicated emotions. And for himself, because there is something in how completely wrong it all is that draws him in until he can't discern between duty and his own curiosity.

It makes him feel sick.

He pulls the demon into a kiss, and that is the beginning of their destruction.


End file.
